Twinkle, Twinkle, Dead Body
by FaerieRing
Summary: A grief-stricken mother leaves her child with Sherlock at a crime scene. What on earth could go wrong? ONESHOT


Lestrade was flummoxed. He had three dead bodies in the middle of Green Park, in the middle of the day, and no idea how they got there. There was a young blonde boy, maybe five years old, with a small but substantial cut through his carotid artery. A middle-aged man with his throat slashed lay beside the boy, holding his hand. Finally, there was a wizened gentleman beside the other two with his head sitting a few feet away from him. All three were lying in a pool of dried blood and according to the ME, they had all been dead for over five hours.

Doing what he always did when a case went over his head, Lestrade got out his phone and called Sherlock, praying to whatever is out there, that the frustratingly brilliant man found the case interesting enough to help him. Thankfully, Sherlock had not had any interesting clients that day and as such was more than happy to assist Scotland Yard, dragging John down with him.

By the time Sherlock and John got down to Green Park, the Yard had managed to track down a young woman who had reported a husband and son missing who fit the description of the deceased. She arrived shortly after the world's greatest and only consulting detective, clutching a baby girl in a sling to her chest as she fearfully made her way towards the crime scene. Upon seeing the bodies, the poor woman collapsed in a flood of tears, calling brokenly for a husband and child who would never again answer. Getting a pointed look from Lestrade, John helped her up and began to take her over to where the Yard had set up shop. She stopped short a few feet away and carefully taking off the sling asked, "Is there anyone who can take Annaliese for a moment? I don't want her hearing this."

John looked around, silently assessing the officers around them. Most looked too intimidating for the woman to be comfortable handing her child over to and the rest were either too busy or too incompetent to be trusted with such a precious charge. Having been asked by Lestrade to talk to the woman, he could not take the child himself and John was just about to say no, when the quiet, brisk voice of his flat mate piped up behind him, "I can take her for you, Ma'am. I believe John has some questions for you in the meantime." After confirming the identities of her family and identifying the unknown man as her ailing father, John turned the woman over to one of the officers who would go over the formalities for getting the bodies back for funerals and such.

Walking back to the group studying the scene, John was treated to the most absurd sight he had ever seen, which was saying something considering his flatmate was the type of person who thought the fridge was a good place to keep body parts. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, self-proclaimed sociopath and the biggest pain in John's ass that ever existed, was pacing the crime scene with a purple sling across his chest, softly singing a lullaby to the now sleeping baby, in Latin. Keeping an eye on Sherlock to make sure he did not disappear on him, John slowly made his way over to Lestrade, who was also watching the spectacle as though he too expected Sherlock and the child to disappear before his eyes in a puff of smoke.

Completely disregarding the bumbling idiots behind him, because, honestly, John and Lestrade where the only semi-intelligent people there, bar himself and the child, Sherlock continued his methodical circling of the crime scene. His keen, penetrating eyes taking in everything about the bodies and the surroundings as he sang an old lullaby under his breath to the precious child cradled against his chest. Spotting one last detail, Sherlock made his way over to the unattractively gapping Detective Inspector and his equally shocked flatmate, deductions flowing from his mouth as easily as the Latin rhymes had just moments before. Finished and for once willing to give his 'friends' time for their little brains to catch up with his, he walked over to the command tent and handed back a sound asleep Annaliese to her much calmed mother, quickly brushing off her teary thanks and hurrying back to John and Lestrade. Children he could handle, grown women on the other hand, well that was another thing entirely, thank you very much.

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock was frustrated. John had been shooting him speculative, supposedly discreet looks since they had returned home and it was driving him to distraction. He obviously had something to say, and despite the rumours, Sherlock was not, in fact, a mind reader. Finally having enough, he decided to address the issue himself.

"John," he called across the room, "what on earth are you thinking so hard about over there. I can hear the gears turning from here."

Shooting him a now wary look, John steadied himself before asking, "Since when do you know how to take care of children?"

Startled by the odd question, Sherlock replied shortly, "I had younger cousins."

"You never told me you knew how to look after kids."

"Well I never said I didn't, did I?"

Taking a moment to process, John turned to look at him sharply and said, "What do you mean 'had'?"

"Ugh!"

Slightly apprehensive and thoughtful, John decided to let it be for the moment, and promptly went about making more tea. As such, it would have to be a pure coincidence when a few weeks later, Sherlock found himself caring for Harry's five energetic children while their mother and Uncle went to an "Adults Only" family reunion. Because John, of course, didn't have a single malicious or cunning bone in his body, now did he?

And if Harry came home after the reunion and found human thumbs in the vegetable drawer and her children discussing cold cases, well, we already knew Sherlock did. J


End file.
